


crawlin' back to you

by orphan_account



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Human, Conspiracy, Crime Fighting, Dark, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Violence, love at first scope, this is almost a darkest timeline leverage au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Michael kneels steadily before him, unbuckling his belt and shucking Alex’s jeans. Alex falls into a seat on the bed; Michael sets his palms against his knees and they stay like that for a long moment, before Michael stands and grabs his med-kit from his suitcase.“C’mon, lemme wrap up those ribs.”Alex raises his brows devastatingly. “Really? That’s what you want to do right now?”
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 32
Kudos: 157





	crawlin' back to you

**Author's Note:**

> [love at first assassination attempt? spicy. ](https://garrett-hawkes.tumblr.com/post/176355063391/love-at-first-sight-tired-boring-love-at-first)  
> michael (being a supergenius) creates the magnet tech that ryan renold's character used in the 6 underground movie, bc it looks cool my dudes and is a neat substitute for his telepathic powers.

_Maybe I’m too_

_Busy bein’ yours_

_To fall for somebody new_

_Now, I’ve thought it through_

_Crawlin’ back to you_

-Do I Wanna Know, Arctic Monkeys

**roswell, 1.**

First time is in New Mexico. Maybe there should be some sense of nostalgia or resentment waking up inside of him, but Michael watches the desert roll by emotionless.

"You know I had a couple foster homes out here." He laughs out the window, wind whipping through the truck's cab, knotting his curls against his head. "Motherfuckers literally tried to give me an exorcism when I was, like, twelve."

"What a shame it didn't take," intones Isobel, voice tinny and small inside his ear. She still manages to convey how deeply, sincerely unimpressed she is through their crackling connection.

"Can we clean up the comms?" Max says. "You're an hour out of town. Radio silence until the job's done, please."

"Sir yes sir." Michael speeds through a sharp left, spitting up rock and dust. It touches his skin just like he remembers, that red film on his hands, in his nose. "I'd rather not listen to you whining about not getting to be the little spoon tonight, anyway."

Max sputters for a second of the other end, but Michael flicks off their connection on his phone, tossing it into an empty cup-holder. Sun high and bright, heat pressing against the sand, leaving cracks and blisters. Michael lets one arm freckle and burn, hanging off the edge of the driver side window, speeding into town with his other hand centered on the wheel. Roswell feels a million miles away, though he's gaining on it every second. He barely remembers big chunks of his childhood, mostly a blessing. But this town has stuck in him like a splinter, and something--not nostalgia, not resentment or anger or fear--but _something_ stirs inside of him the closer he gets.

-

Michael skips the main part of town, his target at the outskirts in a safe house. He wonders if that great burger joint is still up and running, considers the practicality of swinging by for a victory burger when his work is done. Max would be pissed, but that's one of three emotions Max has access to when dealing with Michael so what's new.

He parks and slumps in his seat, cowboy hat tipped just above his eyes. Izzy's better at blending in than anyone, but Michael likes to make the effort. Besides, the whole look is really starting to grow on him.

10:30. He's got half an hour to stare through the windshield until his target will emerge from his creepy little bunker and then. Well. He tries not to sanitize reality, even in his own head, but it's not a pretty thought what will happen in that _and then._

10:43. Michael thumbs through the radio, finding a classic country station he can hum along to. His fingers ghost along imaginary frets. A life on the road, playing guitar and hustling street corners could have been an option for him, at one point. 10:57. Picture perfect clarity: he can see himself on stage, a real life rock star. The lights and sweat and cheering crowd; getting called back for an encore and meeting someone new in every city. Michael shifts in his seat, palming his knife with a grin. The parallels of that life and his own; lights chasing him, the sweat of the work, more screams than cheers, and of course the meeting new people in new places. Nobody wants an encore of him now, though.

11:01. Clockwork, his target emerges. Max is 96% pain in the ass but his intel is as rock solid as his skull. Michael lets the target walk across the yard, then sets his fingers against the handle, ready to pop the door open.

 _Boom_.

In one second his target goes from walking peacefully from his bunker's doors to the porch of the main house, and in the next his head dissolves to a red mist, body falling with rag-doll grace into the dry, yellowing grass.

"Fuck!" Michael hunkers low in his seat, heart beating in his mouth. That was a close hit by a sniper rifle that took the target's head clean off his shoulders and Michael does not want to draw that kind of attention to himself. This whole street is abandoned and they're far out of town, even if someone heard the shot they wouldn't be able to pinpoint its origin. Still, it's a fucking insane way to take this guy out. Low-level physical threat, a high value kill. Michael was planning something a little more subtle than this mess. He had no fucking idea a second contractor had this job, this is a complete wild card in the field. A breath, then two. His fingertip hovers over the emergency trigger that sends a ping to Izzy and Max.

He watches from across the street as a figure emerges from behind a neighboring house. Clad in simple, civilian dress and Army issue boots, a slight hitch in his step. A dark head of hair, curling around the ears, and severe black sunglasses. He's got his rifle bag across his back and he stands next to the corpse for a moment, just staring down. Then he crouches, takes something from a pocket on the target, and walks back the way he came. Except.

Michael holds his breath in his nose as the man turns his head, glasses laser set on Michael; the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, whole body instantly on edge. He can feel the eyes behind the shades, dead-set and caught in them, a fish on a fucking hook. The keys whistle as he sets them in the ignition, reaching for his gun under the seat while trying to remain as still as possible.

The guy is paused, just staring. Then he cracks the tiniest smile, mouth quirking, dark brows rising above his sunglasses. Michael's fingers flex toward the trigger. The man throws up one hand with a little wave, and walks away, disappearing behind the house. 

Michael exhales, finally.

Who the _fuck_?

**prague.**

Michael's on babysitting duty ever since his major fuck up in New Mexico. Two months and Izzy still gives him shit at every possible opportunity.

Like now, for instance. Twiddling his thumbs and balling up burger wrappers for a good hour. Their target is boring as fuck in general and currently asleep, so he's allowed the privilege of watching a stranger snore all night long. It's too early to be this grated by the assignment, but Michael's already fiddling with the inside of his rental car's stereo to review its guts.

Movement, just a twitch of curtain at the bottom left window of the target's three-story walk-up. Now it's getting interesting. Michael snaps the front console back in place, dropping his screwdriver to his fingertips as he leans toward the window, peering up.

Definite movement, now on the second level. Michael's out of the car before he can think, jogging across the street. Time passes in short bursts now, everything heightened. Michael’s got one hand clutching his phone, the other gliding against the wall to steady him as he takes the stairs two at a time. He reaches the second floor in record time, heart beating a steady drum inside his ears.

He turns the corner into the dark hall, steps falling feather-like on the smooth floors. He pauses at each doorway before clearing the room. The target’s office is up next. 

Before he can even take a breath outside the door, a strong hand is dragging him forward, in. The door shuts quietly as Michael stumbles against the hard shove, just catching himself from skidding to his knees. He spins in time to avoid a fist darting towards him. He parries a few more jabs as silently as possible, catching the fists on his forearms, stepping back, away from the assault. No guns yet, which confirms that this other operator has the same idea of invisible infiltration as Michael. Fuck, not that he needs one. Michael pushes one hand on the target’s desk, vaulting over it to try and put some space between him and the operator. This guy is good, and fucking relentless. Michael needs to catch his breath.

The operator runs up the desk, using the momentum to slam into Michael’s chest with his knee. Michael knocks into the wall, choking back a painful cough as two strong hands pin his shoulders. 

“Oh fuck. You?” Michael wheezes, blinking in surprise.

“Huh,” says the guy, the _same_ guy from the Roswell job who took out Michael’s target right in front of him. Recognition passes through his dark eyes.

“Who the hell are you?”

A twitch of brows. “Does that really matter?”

Michael’s breathing is slowing, and the longer they stand there, the more aware he is of this man’s heat, his strength, the close proximity of his mouth. 

“Well,” says Michael, “once is a coincidence but twice? I don’t mess with destiny, darlin’.”

He freezes, as though of every response he anticipated that was not one of them. Michael wants to purr at the reaction; wants more of it. 

“I’d hardly call this fate.” 

“No? What would you call it?”

“Bad luck.”

“Oh, _darlin’_ ,” and Michael drags this one out, watching his eyes flash, his lovely cheeks pinken just barely, “I make my own luck.” And that’s when he finally navigates to the correct program on his phone without looking, and swipes in the final command.

In half a second the man flies through the air and sticks to the opposite wall, pinned like artwork. 

Michael straightens himself, and walks lazily to the target’s computer, plugs in his thumb drive. The man struggles helplessly against his invisible bonds as Michael smooths his hair back, ducks his head into his hat.

“Nano-magnetic tech. I’m stingy with my patents, so enjoy this sample.” He shakes his phone, screen illuminating across the man’s face.

His head hits the wall, features a study in electric fury. “What are you going to do with those?” A point of his eyes to the thumb drive.

“These are bought and paid for by my client. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna scrub the originals. Just need long enough to give my crew a head start out of here.”

“Then let me down. I won’t touch you.” A gleam of white. “Promise.”

“And here I was hoping for a good time. What’s your name?”

“If I tell you, will you let me down?”

“Only if you’re honest.”

There’s a quiet beat; their back and forth the tap of a chess tournament clock, and this move has stumped him momentarily. 

Then: “Alex.”

Michael weighs the scales of possibility in his head. The screen dings as the download completes. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Alex.” He tips his hat, passing him out the door. “Next time, I’ll buy you a drink.”

**sydney.**

"God I love the beach." Michael drains the last of his beer in two long gulps, squinting above his sunglasses to watch a parade of perfectly tanned, toned surfers laugh and sparkle in the sun as they pass. He signals the waitress for another beer and inhales deeply as he sits back, casting his gaze over the balcony and to the deep blue of the ocean.

"Ugh, tell me about it. Max always burns and complains about the sand." Liz wrinkles her nose. "He wants to have our honeymoon in Montana or something, I swear."

"Ew." Michael tips the neck of his fresh beer towards her. "Good luck with that."

"Your nine-o'clock, tan suitcase, bad haircut." Liz checks the menu, not lifting her eyes. "And thanks, but I'm pretty sure it'll take like, one bikini to convince him otherwise."

Michael snorts, setting the beer down quickly. "Jesus--well, I guess it's good to know his whole robot act is just that. Although, be honest, wouldn't you prefer a machine."

Liz sighs, put-upon, hiding her grin. She cocks her gun under the table as the target approaches. "You're the worst."

The next ten seconds are crucial. Liz shoots through the lattice work of the wooden railing, nailing the target’s upper shoulder with a tranq. They stand, napkins fluttering to the table. The target grabs at his arm, already stumbling. Michael drops his bottle on a passing server’s tray, scooping up a handful of fried oysters from an abandoned table before they round a corner, down the white-washed steps. The target is dropping to one knee when Liz reaches for him, cooing in concern, patting his chest. Around a chew, Michael calls around for a doctor, a bit under-performed in his urgency. Still, a trio of beach goers are drawn to the commotion, boxing in on the target with worry. Liz neatly extracts herself as the civilians start pulling out their phones. They blend into the foot traffic, not glancing back at the growing chaos on the open street as passersby try to help, try to figure out what happened.

At the next intersection Liz brushes up next to Michael, palming him the thumbdrive. He hangs a right and she carries on forward, headed to Max’s safe house. Michael catches a cab, walks the last five blocks to an unassuming office building, lets himself in easily. Saturday, no crew, no cameras, thank you Isobel. With a mouse shake he wakes their dormant machines, downloads, then prints up the files.

He’s watching the break room microwave fry the original data in a shower of sparks when the back of his neck prickles.

Afternoon light slants through the closed blinds, highlighting long blocks of blue-grey carpet. The honey-comb pattern of desks stretches to the dark, far wall of the office. Like a mirage formed in shadows, a singular figure is the focal point of it all, leaning comfortably against a desk, hands folded amicably in front of him. 

Alex says, “You destroyed it?”

Michael’s heart skips. Holy shit, this guy might literally be a ghost. Too quick, his eyes dart to the table by his hand, yellow file folder a bright indictment. 

“Ah.” Something relaxes behind Alex’s eyes. He walks toward Michael, casual, slips a gun from his waistband and pulls the hammer back. It’s the calm, confident approach of an apex predator; it’s annoyingly fucking sexy, too. “I’m gonna need that.”

“Sadly, cute as you are, I can’t let you do that.” Michael inputs a command, and metal objects fling themselves across the room, stuck to the far wall, monitors and microwave smashing on impact.

Alex doesn’t budge, now only a few feet away, nor the gun in his hand. A cat with feathers on his lips, Alex grins. 

“Damn,” says Michael. “Ceramic?”

“Plastic. I’m gonna need you to put that file down, now.”

“Hmm.” Michael considers the gun, Alex’s easy grip, the strain of muscles in his exposed forearm. He extends the file. “You wouldn’t really shoot me now, woulda darlin’?”

Alex takes the file, tucks it into the back of his shirt beneath his jacket. He walks backwards to the door, gun trained steady. A glitter in his eyes. “Nowhere vital.”

Laughter, surprising himself with it. Michael shakes his head just a little. “Every time we do this, Alex, you make me want you more.” Truth simmers under the light, teasing tone of his voice. Alex stares, that damn stare with his damn whisky eyes; Michael is ready to crawl into the depth of them, ready to wake up regretting it. Ready for anything Alex will give him. He can feel it--that pull and push, magnetic and completely outside his control.

“I miss the cowboy hat,” Alex says, and then he’s gone. Michael touches the top of his curls, wind knocked out of him.

-

“I’m sorry, you just. Gave it to him.” Isobel’s eyes are closed, breath tightly controlled. “The now only copy of this data. In the world. The only thing our client hired us for. And you. Let him go.”

“To be fair, he had a gun.”

“Okay,” Max says, smartly putting himself between Isobel and Michael before blood vessels can start rupturing in her eyes. Or she wrings Michael's neck. “Let’s chalk this one up as a loss and move on. At least we got a vacation out of it.”

“Our reputation, our _brand_ …” Isobel still has murder in her voice as Max walks her into the adjoining hotel room. 

Liz scrutinizes Michael, folded at the edge of a flowery bedspread. “Hm,” she says.

“What?” Her eyes widen, mouth pressing together. He sighs. “Yeah. I know, I know. I’m fucked.”

**copenhagen.**

“Alex,” Michael smiles slowly, palms up, as apologetic as he can be. “I’m gonna ask you nicely not to shoot me. Can’t go throwing away my reputation for a pretty face. And don’t get me wrong, it’s _very_ pretty.”

Alex isn’t playing today. Muscles tense, shoulders set, gun trained steadily at the floor as he scopes the area. He looks like a soldier, Michael thinks, not for the first time. He puts the image of him in some greens and it overlays perfectly. 

“Move.”

With flourish, Michael steps aside, allowing Alex access to the front door, already unlocked by him.

Michael follows Alex in at a lazy pace as he clears the rooms, one by one. They’re in a mansion, all glass, exposed steel, and sweeping ceilings. White walls, polished concrete floors. Paintings he’s pretty sure were stolen fifty years ago. Eerie silence in the wide open space. Alex makes it up the floating stairs and to the master bedroom, pauses in the doorframe. In the hall, a velvety chaise lounge invites Michael into its embrace.

“My gift to you," Michael calls out.

Alex disappears briefly into the master, gun holstered under his jacket when he returns. The owner of the home is hog-tied in his own golden claw-foot bathtub, still sleeping off a powerful sedative. Michael stretches, pushing against the luxurious cushions, hat tilting into his eyes. Alex’s presence radiates wariness.

“I’m just here for a nap, pal.” Tense, thick silence. Michael sits up with a huff. “Look, I was on my way out when you showed up. I’m not the stalker here, alright? I already got what I came for, so what’s wrong with sharing?”

“Alright.”

“Alright!” A beat. “Well, alright then.” The sticky tension melts. Alex is watching him with bright eyes, all cheekbones and leather jacket, totally unfair. “Wine?”

-

They drink two bottles of red, older than both of them combined. A good hour is spent in front of the record player, fingers skipping over the massive collection. Album art bright postage stamps, stuck on the floor in an arc around them. Alex hums to a few songs, voice lovely, hypnotic and deep. Michael tries not to stare, or at least make it too obvious. Again and again, though, Alex catches him. As the bottles dwindle, he gets bolder, selecting album sleeves at random to drag a smile out of Alex. 

Michael sets his charges and liberates a frame full of poppy flowers on his way out. Painting tucked under one arm, he waits for Alex to box up hard drives he found in the study. They’re long past the stone fence perimeter when Michael activates the magnets and they watch the horizon like it's a sunrise as the enormous, gleaming mansion is crushed under its own weight. Steel beams tear the structure apart, the roof is pulled into the ground and dust rolls in waves out from the destruction. 

“Huh,” says Alex. “Magnets.”

Michael flashes a grin as they begin walking in tandem, backs to the rubble. “See you next time?”

“There won’t be a next time. Guerin.”

“Ooh, okay, I’m impressed. You dug me up. Well, go on, what do you think? Score from one to ten.”

Alex cuts him a look. “Dropout genius who faked his death. With impossible tech and a team of equally invisible people. I think you’re expensive.”

Michael actually doubles over for a second, laugh catching him off guard. Emergency vehicles zip through the streets, miles away. Alex steadies him, hand on his elbow. 

“I could say the same for you. Skilled, a total ghost.”

“Oh?” Alex’s hand is still on his elbow, still touching, holding. His hands are more dangerous than the gun under his jacket, Michael knows this. But his touch is warm, undemanding. Michael’s stuck on an inhale. “You Googled me too?”

“Yeah. I am actually a Facebook stalker. You should meet my team.”

“What?” His grip loosens but doesn’t let go. They’re angling toward one another, feverishly close, rocketing towards disaster. Michael is ready to collapse into dust like the wreckage they left behind.

“My team. I think you’d fit in.” For an exhilarating second they lock eyes, Alex’s hand his only anchor to the corporeal world, spicy-sweet, this close, cinnamon warm. 

Alex lets go. He steps away, and takes Michael's rapid heart with him. “Doubtful.”

“Let me know if you change your mind!” Michael calls at his back, feeling high, like there's too much oxygen going straight to his brain. 

Alex’s teeth are bright in the shadowy street, grinning as he shouts, “Stalker!”

**tokyo.**

“In all the sake joints, in all the world…” Michael drawls his words slow, dropping down on the stool next to Alex.

Alex doesn’t look up. 

“No love lost for your old friend? What’s it been, six months?”

“Didn’t exactly think we classified as friends.” His voice is rough, wrong.

“But I already bought the matching necklaces and everything.” Michael shifts in his seat, trying to glance at Alex’s face through his hair, almost hitting his shoulders now, grown out since he last saw him. Bar patrons chatter quietly around them. Alex picked the perfect corner to keep a vantage point on every entrance and exit--of course. Electric blue glow from the lights lining the shelves shines on the bar-top in front of them. It casts a cool gleam against Alex’s hair, and then, finally, his eyes when he turns.

“Fuck, Alex.” Michael sucks in a breath, clutching his drink to keep from reaching out. Word was a ghost was poking around Japan for some deeply classified shit; Michael got the feelers for a possible job but turned it down. He just happened to be Nagoya on other business, but that job wrapped and he has a few weeks before the next. He figured, fuck it, and didn’t exactly go about looking for Alex in town but part of him was holding out hope they’d bump into each other. Not like this, though.

Alex has been worked over something good. Face black and blue, busted lip and bruised eye. His ribs hitch when he breathes, left hand wrapped in gauze, first two fingers taped up together. Michael can sense Alex’s hackles raise, a tense moment as Alex signals his willingness to take Michael down, here and now. 

Michael leans back, looking him up and down. “Come on.” He overpays for their drinks, dropping the money against the bar, throws back the last of his whiskey, and leaves without looking back. 

The night is cool and wet with rain, city lights reflecting against the black path to Michael’s hotel. He doesn’t need to check to know Alex is half a step behind--though he moves quiet as a cat, Michael can sense him like a second heartbeat. He’s jiggling his key in the lock when he glances back, Alex wet and shivery behind him, eyes blacker than the pavement, shimmering like the pools of light around them. He pops the door and gestures for Alex once he’s inside.

The door locks and Michael catches his breath for a moment. The room is small and dark, glowing billboards and LED lamps spilling beneath the curtains, a hazy blue film clinging in the dim air. Alex doesn’t move, tension still strung tight across his shoulders. Michael moves slow, reaching out with both hands open.

He pushes the leather jacket back, off of Alex’s shoulders. Alex lets it drop, its thud to the floor the loudest thing in the room. Michael walks him backwards towards the bed, peeling and shedding Alex’s shirt next. He stops at the edge of the bed, caught in the tidal pool of Alex’s stare. 

Michael kneels steadily before him, unbuckling his belt and shucking Alex’s jeans. Alex falls into a seat on the bed; Michael sets his palms against his knees and they stay like that for a long moment, before Michael stands and grabs his med-kit from his suitcase.

“C’mon, lemme wrap up those ribs.”

Alex raises his brows devastatingly. “Really? That’s what you want to do right now?”

Michael settles on the bed next to him, legs criss crossed, and flicks on the lamp. Warm orange illuminates the bedspread, Alex’s bruised torso, the hinge of his prosthetic. With the light, all that tension diffuses, and the thrilling blade’s edge of touching Alex melts into something softer.

“Yeah,” he says, “it really is.”

Alex’s gaze remains withering, but he doesn’t protest Michael's nursing. He wraps the gauze tight to help set his ribs properly and disinfects any open cuts he can find. Alex doesn’t wince, breathing deeply, evenly. Michael’s setting a butterfly bandage to a thin cut across Alex’s cheek when he notices the silence echoing in his ears, and the stillness of Alex’s chest, the extreme calm of his breathless, parted mouth. Fingertips smooth along the delicate, darkly bruised skin of Alex’s cheek, tracing to the edge of his ear. 

Alex is frozen--more Greek statue than man and yet--warm and real and not breathing, but with a heartbeat just inches away from Michael--and his starry black eyes flick down to Michael’s mouth and--

Michael drops his hand. Fuck. His heart is racing. “You can sleep here tonight.” _I’ll watch out for you_ , he almost says.

Alex laughs a not quite laugh, just a quick, humorless breath. “Really, Guerin?”

“Alright. Then just--lay down for a minute, Jesus. Pretend to rest. You look like you went ten rounds with a tiger, can you take a minute?”

Alex grumbles a bit, but surprise of the fucking century, actually does as Michael says and leans across him to stretch out on the bed, hissing slightly as he settles. Michael hesitates, then copies Alex, lying beside him, a mirroring curve against his back. Almost touching. Alex’s bare back radiates heat but Michael is careful of his injuries, setting one hand beneath his own head, the other reaching out slowly, so slowly, to rest on the exposed bump of Alex’s hip.

Silence. They’re both holding their breath, but then--Michael can’t tell who, or when--it breaks, and they’re just lying there, balance creeping in against the tensity of the moment. Michael melts into the pillow, eyes fluttering. He can’t get that first image out of his mind--Alex turning his head, the violence staining his skin, his wary movements around Michael. None of this is logical or sane or--

But he doesn’t care, is the thing. He just wants to take care of this impossible, dangerous, frustrating man. He can hear his teammates cackling at his idiocy in the distance.

-

Michael wakes to cool sunlight and cottonmouth. His hand is fisted against empty sheets. With a sigh, he turns his head to peel his phone off the nightstand, but finds his fingers reaching for something else. 

A folded note, propped up against the lamp. Hotel stationary, blue ink, tight, cramped writing. 

_Thanks_

Michael runs his thumb over the word enough times to smudge it into his skin.

**kansas city.**

It takes another three months for their paths to align. They're both surveilling the same conference center, and Michael throws himself into the park bench next to Alex. It's a great location to scout possible sniper nests, not part of Michael's normal routine, but he's started incorporating it on the job. Just in case.

“Well now I just think you’re stalking _me_.” Michael flashes his megawatts. 

“In your dreams, Guerin.” Alex looks damn good. He’s kept the long hair, pulled back today in one of those man-bun things Michael could never master--it’s a look. A delicious kind of look. A few loose strands are tucked back behind Alex’s ear and Michael gets the dangerous, impulsive little-kid urge to _pull_.

“You here for Marques?”

Alex drops his head in his hands. “We can’t just--”

“Right, sorry. Let’s pretend we’re both here for totally different reasons, okay. Go Royals, huh.”

Alex cuts him a glare. It sparks lightning down Michael’s spine. Alex’s mouth drops a touch, his irritation thawing faster than usual.

A predator smelling blood, Michael circles closer. “C’mon. Let me take you out, Marques isn’t landing for hours, and the event isn't until tomorrow."

Alex stares for a long moment. Alex can eat him alive in a glance, judging his worth with a slide of brows. 

“Some of us are professionals, you know. We take this shit seriously, which means proper prep.”

“ _Darlin’_ ,” Michael drawls, chewing the word slowly. He leans in low, cowboy hat tipping into his eyes. “I’m always prepared.”

“Hmm.”

-

“Fuck.” They’re kissing, grabbing with both hands, stumbling backward into Michael’s motel room. “You mind a city-view?” Alex doesn’t respond, but Michael glimpses his eye roll as he sheds his shirt. 

They’re all push no pull against the other--Alex edges out just barely, straddling Michael on the bed. Half-undressed and half-caught in sleeves, Michael finally wrests himself free to tug at Alex’s hips, pulling all his weight, his frenzied kisses, harder against himself. 

-

“Mmm.” Michael traces lazy, aimless fingertips across Alex’s skin. White lamp light shines in the corner of the room. Alex is out of place on the middling-motel sheets--a real diamond ring in a gas station gashapon. 

“You can ask.”

“About?” He feels drunk--good drunk, in a way he hasn’t been when he’s actually drunk in quite some time. Michael’s limbs heavy, stretching down to his toes--he’s been well worked out and this afterglow is warm and lingering. His fingers travel up to Alex’s cheek, work behind his ear and scratch idly in his long, soft hair. 

Alex looks at him. “My leg.”

“Oh.” Michael doesn’t pause, but does cut a glance at Alex’s prosthetic, leaning up against a chair in the corner. “Yeah okay, I do kinda want to know. Who hooked you up with an entirely non-metallic one in the, like, two months between our first encounters? That shit couldn’t have been cheap. You got a guy?”

Alex turns to laugh into Michael’s arm; his soft breath, sharp teeth against Michael’s skin. “You’re being dense.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that one.”

“On purpose.”

“Now that is new.” They smile at each other, and Michael feels it like a stretch--that sweet pull and release. “Okay. I mean, I am curious about the prosthetic, don’t think I’m letting you off the hook there, I want to know your guy. But okay. When?”

“2016. IED.”

“Ouch.”

“Understatement.”

“Yeah.” Michael slides his other hand along Alex’s hip, following its curve down and hooks beneath Alex’s knee, just above its taper. He works the muscle there gently. “It still hurt?”

A quiet, loaded pause. Alex says, “Not right now,” and then he kisses Michael’s follow-ups away.

-

“Pringles?”

“You’re gonna get me charged out the ass for those.” Alex throws the mini can of Pringles and two bags of Sun Chips on the bed, moves to follow. “Actually, grab me a water, would you.” Alex does. “And, uh, a Coke, too.”

“Michael,” asks Alex, leaning up against the open mini-bar, his full, perfect ass nicely on display. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No, no, just trying to enjoy the amenities, darlin’.”

Alex turns, dark brows stamped low in his eyes, fighting a grin. His fingers hook around the cap of the water bottle, swinging loosely from his hand as he stalks toward the bed. 

“Actually, now that I think of it, I’m really very thirsty for something else.” Michael leans back up against the headboard as Alex climbs onto the bed. He crawls up from the end of the bed, moving over Michael’s body slowly before straddling his waist, hands hooking around the back of Michael’s neck.

“Is that right?”

“Mm.” Michael kisses down Alex’s neck. Alex cracks the water and drinks deeply. He pauses to wipe his wet mouth, sets the bottle on the nightstand. Michael stares, struck dumb. “ _Babe_.”

“It’s a miracle you’re still alive, you’re so goddamn predictable, Guerin.”

“It’s my charming personality,” Michael murmurs, kissing down Alex’s chest, hands sliding past the drawstring on Alex’s sweats. “It inspires mercy.”

And at that, Alex throws his head back, full and bright with laughter.

-

“Really?”

“Never been.”

“Damn.” They’re sat up in bed after round three, chip bags and crumbs and crinkling travel-sized waters littered around them. “Greece is gorgeous. I’ll take you some time. You’d look good on a white sand beach. Oh, and the fucking clubs? You like to dance?”

Alex grins. “I might’ve. Once. In my youth.”

“You don’t look like an old man, to me.” Michael leans forward carefully, catching Alex in a long, slow kiss. “Don’t act like one either.”

“Then what do you know,” Alex lies back and Michael covers him, chest to chest, and settles his hands on Alex’s smiling face, “I may just take you up on that dance.”

-

In the morning, Alex sleeps soundly, sprawled on Michael’s chest. Michael watches the clock for fifteen minutes, just enjoying the rhythm of their breaths, rising and falling in parallel. Alex stirs on top of him. He’s awake and alert in a split-second, dark eyes searching Michael’s for a moment before settling with a noisy breath.

“Morning,” whispers Michael. Alex hums a response, eyes closing again. They dress quietly, over suppressed smiles and half-glances. Michael hovers by the door, knowing he should leave first. Not quite able to.

“Conference is at six,” Alex reminds him, a prompt.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t--” Alex looks away. “You know this doesn’t--I’m not--”

“Hey. I know.”

“Okay.” A small, hesitant lift in his mouth. “Good luck.”

-

At six, everything goes to shit. The arena of bioengineering attendees are rushing for the doors, fire alarm blaring overhead. Their target is huddled beneath the event's security, guiding him backstage. He barely started his bullshit speech before the lights were flashing, alarms screaming. Michael fights the tide, chasing the target up stage, behind the curtain. Cutting through panicked stagehands, he catches them in the hall. They’re running toward the back exit, the parking lot. He alerts Isobel through comms, sprinting. By the time he slams through the metal door, the target is peeling away in his Lexus. 

Before Michael can react, the front end of the car explodes in a ball of fire and smoke, front wheels shot up off the ground for a solid second. With a metal whine it swerves to a stop. A swing to his left, and he knows who is walking determinedly towards the wreck before even seeing his face. 

“Shit, shit,” he mutters, ribs burning as he races another stretch. Emergency sirens are drawing in. Hired security has clocked Alex, and Michael tackles him down, shielding him bodily just as the bullets shatter a windshield. 

“Get the fuck off.”

“You’re _welcome_.”

“You idiot.” Alex shoves at Michael, rolling away to crouch behind a tire, eyes straining for a glance of the target. “What the fuck happened? What kind of play are you running?”

“What? That wasn’t us, I thought that was--”

A severe round of burst fire drills into the cars surrounding them. The venue’s security definitely didn’t have automatic firearms, which means they’ve got new company. 

“Shit,” says Alex, basically covering Michael’s internal commentary. “Stay here.”

Michael reaches for him, “Wait,” but Alex is already moving. He stands, fires four shots, and looks down at Michael. 

“You should move, there’ll be more.”

Michael staggers up, brain resetting. Their target was an asshole CEO of a company embroiled in a bioethics nightmare. It was supposed to be an easy grab, allowing for a hostile takeover to push through. Asshat is safe and sound in his silk pajamas by tomorrow, and Michael would spend the next two months blowing his money on rum and coconuts on an island somewhere. This level of security is raising serious, military contractor red flags. And _Alex_ is completely nonplussed, dragging the target from his car and across the asphalt by the collar of his suit jacket.

Isobel and Liz skid to a halt by Michael, looking completely bewildered, still in their skirts and heels, conference lanyards hanging from their necks. Liz checks him over while Isobel’s eyes train on Alex. _Shit._

Alex freezes, holding the target in place with one hand. The target moans and blinks blood from his eye. Michael can’t see Alex’s other hand, but he can see the gun in Isobel’s.

“Wait,” he pushes away Liz’s arms lightly, and reaches for Isobel, icy dread pooling his gut. “Iz. Hold on. Wait, please--”

-

Michael slings curses at the road, weaving between traffic in an ambulance and listening to their target scream in the gurney.

“FUCK!” The ambulance careens through a red, skating by a truck that barely slowed, even though, “The fucking sirens are on you dumbshit, fuck!”

“Michael!” Isobel snaps, poking her head into the cab, white surgical gloves shiny with blood. “Stop swerving!”

“Great, okay, I’ll just crash into--”

“Guys--”

“-- _god_ _you are so dramatic_ \--”

“--fucking licenses from fucking cracker-jack-boxes--”

“HEY!” Liz booms. 

Michael cranes his neck for a moment. Isobel snaps, “What?”

Liz pokes the needle in her hand toward the back window. Through it, Michael sees the issue.

“Fuck." He's starting to get a little pissed. Three black-tinted SUVs are muscling through traffic, caging them in on the sides. The left side mirror explodes, bullets lodging in the ambulance’s side. He rolls down his window, pulse-bomb in his hand a sleek, unassuming capsule. “Iz, call Max for a new exfil. Liz! Hold on to something.”

-

Five hours later Michael is face first on his bed, body aching, a knock sounding at his door. 

Alex pushes in the second he cracks it, his face a storm. Cloudy eyes beneath dark brows, his mouth a strike of anger. “Where is he--” Alex is a tornado spinning across the room, not letting him get close.

“Hold up--”

“Michael.” The gun is pointed at Michael’s forehead, barrel nearly touching him. Safety on. “Where is he.”

Michael leans into the cool metal without flinching. Alex exhales noisily, jaw flexing. He drops his arm.

Head rushing with his heartbeat, Michael says, "What's going on, Alex. That was not a normal security team." 

Alex says, “You don’t understand. I have to talk to him, he has information that I need.”

“So tell me.” 

Alex blinks like it pains him. “Michael. I’m not kidding. You need to bring me to him.” Michael’s never heard his voice like this; raw, almost pleading. They’re at the last of Alex’s walls, Michael can see the cracks. So he presses harder.

“Tell me. We can help you, my team and I, whatever’s going on--” Michael cups Alex’s cheek. “--I’ll help you.”

For a tremulous moment, they are the only two people in existence, orbiting each other faster and faster. Magnets yearning to come together and Michael can feel the final measure of space disappearing between them.

Then Alex steps back, away. Eyes hard, flat, not letting anything in. “I can’t believe I let this happen.”

“Hey, come on.” Michael’s stomach drops. He can feel the situation rapidly slipping from his grasp. “Alex--”

“Don’t.” His voice isn’t angry or loud. Just strained. “This was a mistake, we both knew that. Had to end eventually.”

“I don’t think I do know that. And what the fuck does eventually mean?”

“It means exactly what just happened is why this was a bad idea from the start. We’ve been pushing our luck ever since, and look where it got us.”

“Alex,” Michael tries again, stepping forward. 

“Stop.” Hand on the door. “Don’t say something you’ll regret.”

**london.**

“Who the fuck is this guy?” asks Isobel, stabbing at her keyboard. Drizzling rain taps the window of her cafe, just another shell business she shuffles money through. The lattes are decent, though.

Max is frowning thoughtfully. “No facial matches. Nothing from my FBI contact, either.”

“I’m going back to the lab, there has to be something I missed in Caulfield's research that would be worth a shootout in broad daylight. Risking that much exposure means that company is hiding something bigger than we thought.” Liz presses a kiss to Max’s cheek and leaves the cafe, bell ringing as the door sweeps closed.

Michael stirs his latte, mind whirring. 

-

Weeks pass and the truth forms slowly, coming into a fuzzy focus. Their first encounter with Alex to the shootout at Caulfield Corp. Reams of research on biological weaponing and gene targeting that Liz filters into English for them. Every time their paths crossed, it can be traced back to Caulfield, and some seriously disturbing, seriously illegal activity. Decades of grotesque torture, all in the name of an even more hateful weapon. The deeper they look into it, though, they realize Alex is clearing the board, and he’s not done yet. 

Isobel is still trying to uncover Alex’s identity--at this point driven by pride more than anything, no one’s presented a challenge to her in quite some time. Liz anonymously dumps their research online and Caulfield Corp. is in flames within hours, slimy secrets exposed and stock price plummeting. Arrests would be imminent, if not for all those mysterious deaths. Michael tracks Alex’s movements. Shanghai. Vancouver. Bogota. Little pins pop up wherever another conspirator disappears and reappears in pieces. Alex is a ghost in the margins, never seen or implicated, but Michael can map his presence, building an image out of the negative space. 

Which is all to say, he knows where Alex is going next.

**new york.**

Isobel’s manicure is hesitant, holding the thick file back for a moment. “Michael. Before you read it, just tell me. Who is he, to you?”

Michael sighs, chin pointed at his chest. People flow past them, sliding down the subway steps or jogging through the crosswalk. The team has a job in town, but Michael called an old friend to sub in for him. Flight booked, bags packed, no plan beyond a shooting star’s chance that this time, it will work.

Honest and uncomplicated as he can manage, he says, "I don't know."

She tips the folder toward him. “This took a lot of favors to get a hold of. People don’t erase themselves completely for fun, so. Be careful."

**istanbul.**

He’s on the bridge. Back to Michael, shoulders framed between distant buildings pressing against the pink sunset. Lazy stretches of gray cloud reach across the sky. The wind is bone-chilling, flickering the tips of Alex’s hair. 

Michael pauses just behind him. Alex’s gaze is emblazoned with the sun’s swan-song, head tilting towards Michael. 

“So.” he says, tight. “You read my file.”

“I did,” Michael agrees. Isobel is nothing if not thorough. Military records, blacked out mission reports. 2016, an official request to investigate Caulfield security forces. Classified family history and a face Michael remembers dissolving into the New Mexican desert. Caulfield internal documents over a decade old warning about a whistleblower. Alex’s mother vanishing and the shoddy investigation that swept it under the rug. Further back, childhood medical history, x-rays and a buried CPS report. The legacy of horror staining his family’s name.

“So you understand. Why I--why I have to do this. The human experiments. The torture. My m--” A moment, then two. His hand relaxes forcefully on the railing. “I have to stop him, all of them.”

“Yeah,” he agrees again, then takes a breath, before ripping the band-aid. “But I think you did. I think… you’re done.”

“There’s--”

“There’s always going to be more. Always going to be someone guilty of something. But the group is dead, the project defunct. We exposed them to the public, everything they've touched is radioactive. You kind of… won, the whole vengeance thing.” He settles a soft hand on Alex’s shoulder blade, buried deep beneath his heavy coat, hoping his gentleness soaks through to Alex’s skin. “So… maybe now it’s time to move on.”

“To what?”

Michael’s breath catches. Alex is so young, in this moment, looking to Michael sincerely for an answer he can’t quite grasp. He touches his hand to Alex’s cheek, icy skin-to-skin, praying for warmth, for anything to give Alex in this moment. 

“I… have an idea.”

“Am I gonna hate it?”

“Probably.”

**roswell, 2.**

Shoulder to shoulder in the back of Michael’s pick-up truck. His, not a rental this time. Knees at the edge of the cargo bed. From the crest of this hill he spots the church, a scattering of homes and trailers, a local restaurant’s colorful glowing sign. 

Alex leans back on his palms, face tipped into the fading sun, eyes shut. “Thanks, for being here.”

“No where else I wanna be.” 

Alex cracks an eye at that, smile slow but sure. He squints at the horizon, reaches an arm out. “I went to school there.” 

Following his gaze, Michael says, “What if we’d met, back then?”

Alex barks a laugh. “In high school?” 

“Yeah. You would’ve kicked my ass.”

Alex's head tilts askew, glancing toward Michael. “No,” he says, smiling still. “I bet I would have liked you.”

“Yeah?”

They turn fully toward one another, aligning like an eclipse. Sun to earth to moon; a straight line through the stars, spearing Michael’s heart. Alex’s mouth is radiant in sunset, glowy and grinning.

“Yeah,” he says, and Michael dips forward, to catch all that light in a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> im embracing this as a dark leverage au, so alex def joins in on the team's shenanigans and michael def flirts with him while rappelling down a skyscraper at some point, it's in the contract  
> [tumblr](http://katsofmeer.tumblr.com/)


End file.
